And Justice for All
by navigatio
Summary: While on shore leave Malcolm and Trip meet a beautiful native. When the woman is found dead, the two Enterprise officers end up on trial for murder. Epilogue added. Happy now?
1. Out of the Frying Pan

Disclaimer: I don't own any of the Enterprise characters, and I'm not making any money from this story.  
  
Warning: This is another dark story. Contains implications of sexual assault.  
  
+++  
  
And Justice for All  
  
  
  
Chapter 1: Out of the frying pan  
  
"Ain't this great, Malcolm? Three days shore leave and nothing to do but sit around and relax, soak up a little sun . . ."  
  
"Bloody boring, if you ask me," Malcolm replied. He pulled his hat down farther over his eyes to block out the sun which was finally heading toward the western horizon. He swore he could feel his skin burning. "This would be a lot more fun if we had some company. I only agreed to come with you because you promised we would meet some of the lovely locals."  
  
Trip looked around the outdoor bar where they were seated, scanning for some likely prospects. A group of three women walked toward them and he got ready to put on some charm, but they veered off at the last minute and headed toward a group of men sitting at a table nearby. All of the men of this planet, Aslandia, seemed to be huge, standing at least a head taller than Trip, and making Malcolm look like a midget by comparison. Trip sighed. How could they have a chance with such competition?  
  
"They could at least provide a little shade." Malcolm grumbled. "How are you supposed to enjoy your drink when you're burning alive?"  
  
"Quit grousing, Reed. Here comes a lovely local right now." A lone woman approached the bar where they were sitting and settled herself on the barstool beside Malcolm.  
  
"Hello, boys," she smiled. "You're not from around here, are you?"  
  
Both Trip and Malcolm returned the smile. Their prospects had suddenly turned for the better.  
  
"No, Ma'am. We're from the Starship Enterprise, from a planet called Earth. I'm Commander Trip Tucker and this sourpuss is Lieutenant Malcolm Reed."  
  
"I'm delighted to meet you. I am Aliana." Her reddish curls bobbed as she bowed her head slightly in what apparently was the local tradition.  
  
After a few minutes of pleasant conversation, Aliana said, "It's so noisy in here. What do you say we continue the conversation at my house? It's just around the corner."  
  
Malcolm and Tucker exchanged glances. They didn't want to get themselves into another predicament like they experienced on Risa, but this seemed to be an offer that was too good to pass up. Besides, what could one lone woman do to them?  
  
"That sounds like a great idea." Tucker answered after a moment. "Ok with you, Malcolm?" The other man frowned, then grunted in assent.  
  
"Excellent. Follow me." Together they trooped out of the bar, Malcolm and Tucker jockeying for position as they went.  
  
+++  
  
Captain Jonathon Archer sank back into the comfortable deck chair on the patio of his hotel room and sighed. With a cold glass of lemonade close at hand and his new book on his lap, he was ready to take full advantage of his shore leave to do what he had been intending to do on Risa: read and relax. He promised himself he wouldn't let anything stand in his way this time. He would finish that book before he returned to the ship, or die trying.  
  
After taking a sip of his lemonade, Archer opened the hardcover of the book and sniffed it appreciatively. Nothing smelled as good as a new book, even an old classic like this one. He flipped to the title page and read "Gulliver's Travels" with a smile. It was going to be a great three days.  
  
+++  
  
"That wasn't so bad, huh Malcolm?" Trip asked as they left the woman's house, about an hour after they had entered it. The woman had been nice enough and they were both still in possession of their clothes, so the engineer was ready to chalk it up as a successful encounter.  
  
No, I suppose not," came the reply. "Now if we can just make it back to the hotel before it gets dark. . ." Malcolm started walking faster until Trip, despite his longer legs, practically had to jog to keep up with him.  
  
"I don't know what you're so worried about. T'Pol just said things can be 'unpredictable' after dark. It's not like we're going to get murdered or anything. Will ya slow down a little, please?"  
  
With a snort of disgust, the lieutenant slowed his pace just enough for Tucker to catch up. "I for one tend to take the sub-commander's warnings seriously. And so should you. You got us into trouble last time when you impetuously followed those two women into the cellar."  
  
"I seem to remember you being right behind me on that one."  
  
"I was only doing my duty as head of security. I couldn't let you walk into a potentially dangerous situation without backup."  
  
"Ha! What a load of-"  
  
By this time the two men had entered their hotel, which was attached to the bar they had been sitting in earlier, and were approaching their rooms.  
  
"Good night, Commander," Reed said abruptly and entered his door, closing it behind him.  
  
Tucker stared after him for a moment, then sighed. "Why do I bother?" he asked himself as he entered his room. He tossed the room key on the dresser and collapsed on the bed, feeling as if all the energy had suddenly been drained out of him. Maybe he had had a few too many drinks at that woman's house. What was her name again? Oh, yeah-Aliana. Alien-a, he mused sleepily. Gorgeous hair. Nice smile too. Hmmm-too bad she seemed to prefer Malcolm. Trip shifted his weight-there appeared to be something in his jacket pocket. He shoved his hand in and dragged the object out. The word "scarf" floated through his mind, but he couldn't make sense of it, and he felt remarkably little curiosity about how it might have gotten into his pocket. He let the object slip from his fingers to the floor and returned to his musings. Maybe she'll come back tomorrow. . . maybe she'll bring a friend. . . With that happy thought, Trip drifted off to sleep, not even bothering to change into his pajamas.  
  
It seemed like only moments later that Trip was awakened by a loud banging on the door. He slowly pried his eyes open and then closed them again to block out the bright sunlight pouring in the window. Must be morning, he thought fuzzily. The banging continued insistently, louder, and accompanied now by an unfamiliar voice shouting, "Open up!!" and then "Police! Open the door!"  
  
With an effort, Tucker worked his way to his feet. Police? What the hell? He stumbled toward the door. Just before he opened it, he heard a voice that was unmistakably Malcolm's exclaiming "I don't know what you're talking about!"  
  
As soon as the door opened, five huge men in dark green uniforms swarmed through. Two of them grabbed and handcuffed Tucker while two more began haphazardly searching the room. The fifth blocked the doorway. "Commander Charles Tucker of the Starship Enterprise, you are under arrest for the murder of Aliana Rodrigo, wife of First Administer Giro Rodrigo," he stated calmly.  
  
"What!!??" Tucker exploded. The two policemen tightened their grip on his arms as if afraid he might bolt at any second. "What are you-that woman- she-she's married?" he finished in confusion.  
  
"Yes, and now she is dead," the officer replied. "And you killed her."  
  
"No, she-she was alive-we didn't do anything . . ." Tucker's voice trailed off as the two men dragged him out into the corridor, away from his accuser. The last thing he heard was "Search the room well, men. We don't want to miss anything that could help convict these off-worlders of this heinous crime."  
  
+++  
  
  
  
"I'm telling you again, she was alive when we left. We didn't kill her." Over four hours of interrogation, Malcolm's voice had become louder and more clipped, more-British-with every denial. His accusers were obviously losing patience with him.  
  
"Then why were you seen running from the murder scene?" the investigator, Dimoc, asked for what seemed like the hundredth time.  
  
"We were trying to get back to the hotel before dark. We didn't want to get mugged."  
  
"Oh, you mean a big strong man like you is afraid of being mugged?"  
  
Malcolm studied the man and decided that comment was intended as sarcasm, so he folded his arms and didn't respond.  
  
"Tell me again what happened."  
  
"I've told you. We met the woman at the bar. She invited us to her house. We had a few drinks, made small talk for about an hour, then we left."  
  
Another man entered and whispered something in Dimoc's ear, then stood beside the door with hands behind his back. The detective smiled, crocodile-like.  
  
"Would it surprise you to learn that your companion is telling us a different story? He just made a full confession. In fact, he told my partner here that you killed her while he watched."  
  
Malcolm jumped up from his chair. "That's a lie! Commander Tucker wouldn't say that!" he shouted.  
  
As quick as a cheetah the second detective grabbed him and slammed him against the wall. His massive fist connected with Malcolm's cheekbone, banging the back of his head into the concrete. Stars danced in front of his eyes.  
  
"That's enough, Gordo," Dimoc said with a wave of his hand. To Malcolm he said, "You can still make a deal. Tell us the truth."  
  
Malcolm looked the man right in the eye. "I have told you the truth," he replied unblinkingly.  
  
Sneering, the detective nodded to Gordo, who was still hovering in the background. "Let's show him how we treat murderers on this planet." Gordo advanced on Reed, snarling. 


	2. Justice for None

Disclaimer: I don't own any of the Enterprise characters, and I'm not making any money from this story.  
  
Warning: This is another dark story. Contains implications of sexual assault.  
  
+++  
  
  
  
Chapter 2: And justice for none  
  
Trip Tucker pushed his back against the cold stone wall of the cell. He had come through the interrogation relatively unscathed, but his wrists hurt where the handcuffs had rubbed most of the skin off. He massaged them absently. After several more minutes, the door of the cell clanged open and Trip scrambled to his feet. Two guards shoved Malcolm through, and Trip caught him before he fell.  
  
"You ok?"  
  
"Fine, thank you." Malcolm shook off Trip's hand. "Do you know they think we murdered that woman?"  
  
"No kidding. You look like shit."  
  
"You have a keen grasp of the obvious, Commander."  
  
The cell door opened again and Captain Archer entered, accompanied by Detective Dimoc.  
  
Archer immediately noticed the bruises on Malcolm's face and his jaw tightened. He had been assured that his men were being treated well, but it appeared otherwise. He turned and glared at Dimoc, who stepped back into the corridor.  
  
"Captain!" Tucker exclaimed. "Boy, am I glad to see you! Are you coming to take us outta here?"  
  
"I'm afraid it's not so simple, Trip. The First Administer's wife was murdered, strangled, and you two were the last ones seen with her. Trip, they found the murder weapon, a ladies' scarf, in your hotel room."  
  
"What!!?" Malcolm and Trip cried out simultaneously. Then a picture flashed into Trip's mind, a picture of himself pulling a scarf out of his jacket pocket, dropping it to the floor.  
  
"But-but-the scarf-I found it in my pocket. I swear, Captain, I don't know how it got there."  
  
"Captain," Malcolm jumped in, "We were together the whole time. Commander Tucker did not murder that woman!"  
  
"Easy, you two. I believe you, I believe you. However, the local authorities aren't willing to release you. They say you must be tried under their judicial system. They've promised me you'll get a fair trial." Looking at Malcolm's banged-up face, Archer realized he wasn't quite sure he believed that promise, but he didn't tell his men that.  
  
+++  
  
Malcolm and Trip were already seated in the prisoner's box when Archer entered the courtroom less than 24 hours later. These people certainly believe in having a speedy trial; I hope they also believe in reasonable doubt and innocent until proven guilty, he thought grimly. From what he observed so far, he doubted it, and he had told Admiral Slocum so the night before, but Slocum had refused to intervene. "We can't be steppin' in whenever y'all get in a tight spot, Johnny," the man had drawled. "We can't go interferin' with governments on other planets if we want to make friends out there." Archer felt a headache starting behind his eyes. He didn't want to have to explain to Trip's mama that her boy was stuck in an alien prison and he couldn't get him out.  
  
From her seat beside him, T'Pol whispered, "Lieutenant Reed has been assaulted."  
  
"Yeah, I know. I think the cops did it."  
  
At the front of the courtroom a man stepped forward and rang a large bell. The spectators quieted down as a woman dressed in black seated at a raised dais lifted her hands for silence.  
  
"The proceedings will begin," she proclaimed in a loud voice. "The first witness will step forward."  
  
An elderly woman with a cane stepped up to the witness box in front of the dais.  
  
"State your name for the record," the judge said.  
  
"Mrs. Lusha Brevald," the old woman answered in a quavering voice.  
  
"Please tell the court what you saw."  
  
"I saw those two off-worlders leave the Administer's house about an hour before dark. They ran down the street, like they were trying to get away quickly. The taller one kept looking back like he was afraid someone might be following them."  
  
The woman stepped down with no cross-examination, and Archer shot a concerned look at T'Pol. This didn't look much like due process to him. Where were the lawyers? And there didn't appear to be a jury either. Dimoc had told him that an impartial judge would decide the case. He certainly hoped that she would get to hear from the other side.  
  
At the front of the courtroom, Dimoc, the chief investigator, stepped up to the witness box.  
  
"We received a call from Administer Rodrigo at approximately 8 in the evening. He had found his wife dead in their home. She had been strangled. A canvass of the neighborhood indicated that two off-worlders had been seen leaving the house at around the time of death. They matched the description of the two prisoners, Commander Charles Tucker and Lieutenant Malcolm Reed from the off-worlder vessel Enterprise. We went to their hotel and arrested them. The murder weapon, one of the victim's scarves, was found in the hotel room of Commander Tucker.  
  
"What evidence do you present?" the judge asked.  
  
"The scarf, and these pictures of the victim and murder scene, as well as sworn statements from five other witnesses who saw the accused enter the house with the victim and leave about an hour later, after the time of death." Dimoc handed a stack of papers along with a silky beige scarf to the judge.  
  
"Thank you, that is all."  
  
Investigator Dimoc nodded and left the witness box.  
  
"I am ready to make a decision in this case," the judge began. Whoa, whoa, wait a minute, Archer thought frantically. What about the defense witnesses? What about crime scene evidence? He turned his head to look at Malcolm and Trip, who were sitting in stunned silence. T'Pol must have sensed he was about to jump up and say something, because he suddenly felt her iron hand on his arm, holding him firmly in his seat.  
  
"Prisoners, please stand," the judge continued. Two guards pulled Malcolm and Trip to their feet. "You have committed a terrible crime. We cannot tolerate such actions on Aslandia. Therefore you are sentenced to imprisonment for life in a secure facility. Court is adjourned."  
  
"No!!" Trip burst out. "We didn't do it!! We didn't-" One of the guards hit Trip in the face with the butt of his rifle, silencing his outburst. The guards began to drag the two Enterprise officers out.  
  
Shaking off T'Pol's hand, Archer leapt to his feet and began to fight his way to the front of the courtroom through the throngs of other spectators who were standing in the aisles. "Why weren't my men allowed to defend themselves?" he shouted to the judge over the rising noise. "You didn't even question the witnesses!" By this time Archer had reached the front of the courtroom, with T'Pol close behind.  
  
"Are you saying the witness were lying?" responded the judge.  
  
"They might have been," Archer replied hotly. "You didn't even ask them any questions. And why weren't my men allowed to defend themselves?"  
  
"Why should I accept the testimony of an off-worlder over that of my own people?" the judge asked, with a glint of irritation in her eyes.  
  
Archer didn't back down, although he could feel T'Pol's breath on his neck. "You should have heard all the evidence before you decided!" he exclaimed, voice rising in anger.  
  
"Enough!" the judge roared. "Leave immediately or you will join then in prison!"  
  
"Captain," said T'Pol from behind him. "We should leave now."  
  
"No! Not without my officers!!"  
  
T'Pol put her hand on Archer's shoulder and spun him around to face her. "It will be difficult to prove them innocent when you are also in prison." She said in a voice barely audible over the noise in the room.  
  
Archer froze. T'Pol took his hand and led him out of the courthouse. Once outside, he abruptly stopped and sat down on the steps, head in his hands. T'Pol stood over him with her arms folded, disapprovingly, but also a little protectively.  
  
"How am I going to explain this to Trip's mother?" he said into his hands. "I've got to get them out of there."  
  
Before T'Pol had a chance to respond, a tall, thin man with a gray goatee walked up to them. T'Pol recognized him as Administer Rodrigo, the husband of the dead woman.  
  
"Your officers got off easy," he said with disgust thick in his voice. "If I had had my way, they would have been sentenced to death."  
  
Archer stood. "I'm sorry your wife died, but my officers didn't kill her."  
  
"Of course you would believe them, you are their captain. But I know the truth. And I will be proposing legislation to the Aslandian council that will protect our peaceful world from violent outsiders." With that, the Administer turned and stalked away.  
  
Archer's fists clenched as he watched the man go. Peaceful world, hah! What a joke! These people imposed peace at the expense of justice.  
  
T'Pol watched Archer carefully. Seeing his balled-up fists and tense shoulders, she was concerned that he would lash out without thinking and make the situation even worse.  
  
"Captain," she said, "while your anger is understandable under the circumstances, we must focus on securing the release of our officers."  
  
When he swung around to face her, she was surprised and a little intimidated by the fury in his eyes. "How do you propose we do that?" he snarled.  
  
"By uncovering the truth. If Commander Tucker and Lieutenant Reed did not murder that woman, then someone else did. We must discover who really committed the crime."  
  
Archer stood in silence for a moment as he got his emotions back under control. "You're right," he said quietly. "Let's get started."  
  
+++  
  
Do you like it so far? Let me know! The next couple of chapters are done, I'm just waiting for feedback before posting. 


	3. Into the Fire

Disclaimer: I don't own any of the Enterprise characters, and I'm not making any money from this story.  
  
Warning: This is another dark story. Contains implications of sexual assault.  
  
+++  
  
Chapter 3: Into the fire  
  
Trip Tucker, carrying a folded blanket and a pair of shoes which had seen better days and were probably too big for him anyway, followed Lieutenant Reed down the dingy corridor of the prison. Bare bulbs swinging from wires on the ceiling cast eerie shadows on the concrete block walls. Ahead of them Trip could hear an ungodly racket which seemed to be composed mostly of shouts and metal clanging against metal. At the end of the corridor a heavy metal gate was opened by a guard. The prisoners, about a dozen of which Trip was the second, filed out into a huge gray courtyard with a very high ceiling. Rows of cells with bars for doors, three stories stacked on top of each other, lined the walls for as far as Trip could see. In nearly every cell, prisoners leaned through the bars, shouting at the newcomers. Ahead of him, Malcolm hesitated as if unsure of which way to go. One of the guards prodded the Lieutenant in the back with his club.  
  
"To your left! Get moving!" the guard shouted over the din. "Stay on the yellow line!"  
  
Trip started to follow Malcolm, but another guard whacked him on the leg with her club. "You!" she shouted. "To your right! Second level!"  
  
As Trip turned to obey, he got a glimpse of Malcolm twisting around to catch his eye. A guard yanked him back into line and he marched off in the opposite direction.  
  
A female guard, a huge woman with forearms as big around as Trip's thigh, led Tucker and two other prisoners up a flight of stairs and down a walkway on the second level. She stopped at the third cell. A buzzer sounded and the door swung open. She pointed her club at Trip. "In there," she said in a bored voice.  
  
Trip stopped in the door. "What about my friend?"  
  
"The little guy? What about him?" she shrugged.  
  
"Where's he going?"  
  
"I ain't got time for this. Get in the cell."  
  
"Just tell me where he's going." Trip insisted  
  
"What, you two got something going? You some kinda fairy?"  
  
"No, I just-"  
  
The guard clubbed Tucker on the shoulder. "I told you to get in the cell. Now move it!" Trip practically fell into the compartment and the guard slammed the door shut behind him. He picked himself up and turned to face his new cellmates. Of the eight bunks, three were occupied by men of various shapes and sizes. The other five appeared to be empty. Trip moved toward an empty bunk.  
  
"That's my bed," came a low growl from the bottom bunk to the left of the door.  
  
"All right," Trip muttered under his breath as he set his blanket down on a different bunk.  
  
"That one's mine too," said the voice. "In fact, they're all mine."  
  
"Then where the hell am I supposed to sleep?"  
  
The owner of the voice unfolded himself from the bunk to his full height. Tucker found that his eyes were even with the man's chest.  
  
"That ain't my problem, now is it?" the man snarled. Tucker heard a snicker from one of the other inmates.  
  
Trip felt his chest tighten. The built-up anger from the events of the past few days exploded out of him, and without even conscious thought he found himself driving his shoulder into the man's stomach. It was like hitting a brick wall. Tucker bounced off and landed on his back on the floor. An enormous hand grabbed him by the front of his prison-issue gray shirt and tossed him effortlessly against the bars of the cell. The engineer slid to the floor, gasping for breath. The huge man moved in close and grabbed a handful of Trip's shirt, rancid breath hot on his face.  
  
"Listen up, boy. I don't care where you come from or how important you were on the outside. You belong to Tazmin now. You sleep where and when I tell you to. You wanna take a piss, you gotta ask me first. Got it, boy?"  
  
Tucker tried to push the hand away. "Leave me alone! I don't belong to you or anyone else!"  
  
Tazmin shook him roughly, slamming the back of his head against the bars. "What's wrong with you, boy? You wanna get beat?"  
  
"By you? I don't think you got what it takes!"  
  
A massive fist slammed into Trip's cheekbone, snapping his head back. "You're gonna learn some respect, smart mouth."  
  
Trip heard a snicker from one of his other cellmates. He twisted away from the huge man's grasp and sprang to his feet. "You plannin' on teachin' me, boy?" he taunted.  
  
With a roar Tazmin lunged at him. Trip tried to sidestep but Tazmin anticipated his move and slammed into him, knocking him backwards into the bars. Trip turned as he fell and hit his face on the cold steel. He tasted blood in his mouth from a split lip. In an instant Tazmin was on him again with fingers wrapped around his throat.  
  
"Do we have an understanding?" Tazmin asked.  
  
Trip gagged and clawed at the fingers but couldn't dislodge them. As he couldn't speak, he just glared at Tazmin with naked hatred in his eyes. The big man smiled and slowly loosened his grasp.  
  
"Get up, you little piece of shit."  
  
Trip took his time getting to his feet. His throat burned, but he wasn't going to give the man the satisfaction of knowing he had hurt him. Me and my big mouth, he thought ruefully.  
  
Tazmin settled himself back on his bunk, hands folded behind his head while Trip picked up his blanket and shoes. Since the beds were apparently off- limits, he wrapped the blanket around his shoulders and curled up on the floor in the corner.  
  
+++  
  
"All right, people," Archer said. "Since the police aren't interested in finding out what really happened, it's up to us." He looked around the briefing room at his assembled bridge crew, keenly aware that it was missing two key people. "Does anyone have any suggestions about where to start?"  
  
"I recommend we interview witnesses who may have seen Lieutenant Reed and Commander Tucker with the woman at the bar," T'Pol said. "Perhaps they were followed by the real killer. Someone may have noticed."  
  
"Captain, I don't think the native Aslandians will be very eager to help us," Hoshi added. "They seem to have a 'thing' about outsiders. I think we should start by interviewing other off-worlders. We may get more information that way."  
  
"All right, thank you, Hoshi. T'Pol, you and Hoshi hit the bar. I'd like to talk to some of the Administer's neighbors. Maybe one of them saw something that implicates someone else. Travis, you're with me."  
  
+++  
  
The sun was just setting as T'Pol and Hoshi entered the outdoor bar, and the place was crowded with people from a wide variety of species, all apparently enjoying themselves immensely. Loud, pulsating music overlaid the hum of conversation.  
  
"Do you recognize anyone?" T'Pol asked Hoshi. The Ensign looked around. In the dim light, it was hard to tell.  
  
"I don't know. We'll just have to ask people. Excuse me," she said to a man sitting alone. "Were you here two nights ago?"  
  
The man shook his head, as did the next two people she asked. Before long, the two Enterprise officers found themselves at the bar, and Hoshi realized that she definitely recognized the bartender. He was an off-worlder who had served her a drink the last time she was there. He had even flirted with her. When she raised her hand to motion him over, he came quickly.  
  
"What can I get for you ladies?" he asked smoothly, hands on the bar.  
  
"Information," T'Pol replied.  
  
The bartender looked over his shoulder at his boss, a native Aslandian, who was watching from the other end of the bar. He pulled out a rag and started wiping the bar as he answered. "What about?"  
  
"Do you recall these two men?" T'Pol laid a picture of Tucker and Reed on the bar.  
  
"Those the ones convicted of murdering the Administer's wife? Yeah, I remember them."  
  
"Did you see them with the murdered woman? She apparently met them here."  
  
"Is that what they said? I saw them meet someone, but not Mrs. Rodrigo. Looked kind of like her, though. Red hair."  
  
T'Pol and Hoshi exchanged looks of surprise.  
  
"Are you sure it wasn't her?" Hoshi asked.  
  
"Positive. Mrs. Rodrigo's been in here before. This lady was shorter."  
  
"Why did you not give the police this information?"  
  
The bartender shrugged. "Nobody asked me. Besides, I didn't think it mattered. It was the wife who ended up getting killed, so who cares if they met her here or somewhere else." From the other end of the bar, the boss started making his way toward them.  
  
"I gotta get back to work. I-I can't get involved in this."  
  
"Are you aware that Administer Rodrigo intends to introduce information which would make it illegal to hire off-worlders?" T'Pol asked. "You would lose your job."  
  
"I'm gonna lose my job right now if I don't get back to work. So, are you gonna order drinks or not?"  
  
"I think not," T'Pol answered as she turned away.  
  
Hoshi read the man's name from the tag on his shirt. "Thank you, Urev," she called. He moved on to the next customer without responding.  
  
+++  
  
By the time Archer had had five doors in a row slammed in his face, he was getting a little discouraged. So far their canvass of the neighborhood had netted them only insults and bruised egos. But still he and Mayweather soldiered on.  
  
The door of the sixth house was opened by someone he recognized, the old woman who had testified at the trial. She stood blinking at him in the sunlight.  
  
"Yes? What do you want?"  
  
Archer racked his brain until he finally came up with her name. Lusha something, Lusha Brevald.  
  
"Mrs. Brevald," he said hopefully. "We're gathering information about the murder of the Administer's wife."  
  
"I already told the judge everything," the woman said, starting to close the door. Archer held it open.  
  
"We were just wondering if you knew anything else. You seem to be very observant."  
  
"Well, it pays to keep tabs on one's neighbors. People behave mighty strangely around here."  
  
"Oh, how's that?" Archer asked conversationally, shooting a glance at Mayweather.  
  
"Well, just yesterday I saw the Administer stepping out, and he wasn't even wearing mourning colors. And the young lady, that secretary of his, was done up like a sunrise bird. I never saw such a thing!"  
  
"His secretary?"  
  
"Oh, yes. They're together all the time now. She used to only come around on the evenings Mrs. Rodrigo was out with her friends. The Administer certainly works odd hours."  
  
"I see," said Archer. "Well, thank you for your time, ma'am." After the old woman closed the door, Archer turned to Mayweather.  
  
"Looks like the Administer may have been involved in some extracurricular activities," said the Ensign.  
  
Archer nodded. "Let's go meet up with Hoshi and T'Pol. I'm sure they'll be interested to hear this!"  
  
+++  
  
"Trip! Over here!" Malcolm shouted over the noise in the cafeteria. It had been nearly a week since they had entered the prison, and Malcolm felt he had adjusted fairly well to his new environment. His cellmates weren't the most talkative bunch, but they mostly kept to themselves, which Malcolm appreciated. Trip didn't appear to be faring so well, however. Reed was getting a little concerned about the man. Judging by the collection of bruises, he seemed to be getting in more than his share of fights. So far Trip had refused to talk about it.  
  
Tucker settled his lunch tray on the table next to Reed's and sat down on the bench. Malcolm immediately noticed he was sporting a fresh mark on his left cheekbone. "Another fight, I see," he said.  
  
The engineer rubbed the spot. "It's nothin'," he mumbled.  
  
"Who was it this time?"  
  
"I said it was nothin'. Just drop it, ok?"  
  
"Look, Commander, we're going to be here for quite some time. It might be a good idea to start trying to get along with people."  
  
"Damnit, Malcolm, I don't know about you, but I don't intend to spend the rest of my fuckin' life here!" Trip's voice rose in intensity with every word.  
  
Malcolm studied Tucker closely. In addition to the new bruise, the man had an impressive collection of contusions and abrasions on his face and neck. Reed suddenly realized that a yellow-green mark, about the size of a plum, on the side of Trip's neck was most probably a thumbprint. Whoever had made that mark would have to be huge. Why would Tucker pick a fight with someone so big? Maybe he hadn't had a choice. . .  
  
A deep voice from behind interrupted their brewing argument. "Boy, you're sitting in my seat."  
  
Malcolm turned around and found himself facing a leg as big around as a tree trunk. He looked up into the face of the most massive man he had ever seen. The newcomer appeared to be talking to Trip, who was trying to ignore him. Malcolm was surprised to see Tucker's chin quiver.  
  
"Didn't you hear me, boy? Get outta my seat!"  
  
Tucker didn't move. The giant took hold of the shoulder of Trip's shirt with a meaty paw and yanked him from the seat. The engineer stumbled backwards, nearly falling into another inmate who shouted and dropped his tray. Malcolm scrambled to his feet in a vain attempt to help, but was shoved back down onto the bench by one enormous hand. As Trip regained his balance, Malcolm spotted the guard making her way over to the scene. The inmate who had dropped his tray pushed Tucker in the chest, knocking him into the giant who caught him in a full Nelson hold. Trip squirmed but could not get free.  
  
"Break it up, break it up!" the guard yelled, wading into the melee of inmates who were all shouting at once. She began to club people indiscriminately until she finally reached the two men at the epicenter of the disturbance. The giant was still, but continued to hold a struggling Tucker in his iron-tight grip.  
  
"What happened here?!" the guard asked angrily. Several men started talking at once, and the guard yelled for silence. "You," she pointed at the giant, "What happened?"  
  
"This boy tried to take my seat. Then he knocked down my buddy here. I think he was trying to start a fight."  
  
"That's not true!" Tucker cried.  
  
"Shut up!" the guard bellowed in response. "Kid, you're on kitchen duty. The rest of you, finish your meals and get outta here!"  
  
"Fine by me, ma'am," said the giant as he released Tucker's arms. He picked up his tray and headed toward a different table. The guard pushed Trip in the back with her club, shoving him toward the kitchen. Malcolm followed.  
  
"What about me?" he asked her.  
  
"Huh?"  
  
"I'd like to help in the kitchen."  
  
The guard stopped, looked Malcolm over, and grinned. "This must be your little buddy, huh?" she said to Trip, who looked at the floor and didn't answer. "Forget it, little buddy. Your friend has been asking for this since day one. He's working off his punishment alone."  
  
Malcolm hesitated. Since Tucker didn't seem to care one way or the other, Reed decided he was done trying to rescue someone who didn't appear to want rescuing.  
  
"Fine, I'll see you later, Trip," he said, then headed back to the table to finish his lunch.  
  
Malcolm took his time eating, watching the door to the kitchen in hopes that Trip would reappear. When he had taken the last bite, he stayed in his seat. Although Tucker didn't seem to care, Reed didn't feel right abandoning him. He felt the least he could do was wait for him. Finally he noticed a group of four inmates headed toward the kitchens. They said something to the guard at the door, who nodded and let them enter. Malcolm felt a little better. At least Trip wouldn't be working alone. He stacked his tray on the pile and strolled out into the yard, one of the last to leave the cafeteria.  
  
Trip Tucker leaned over the sink, scrubbing the last big pot with all his strength. He had to admit it felt kind of good to have something to take out his frustrations on, since he found himself completely incapable of fighting the real source of those frustrations. He was so intent on his task that he didn't hear the group of men come up behind. His first clue to their presence was a hand on his shoulder. He spun around and saw that he was surrounded.  
  
"What do you want?" he asked quickly, eyes darting from one to the other.  
  
The inmate in the middle, tall and lean, dark-haired with a puckered whitish scar running from ear to chin, smiled toothily and said, "Tazmin asked us to pay you a social call. He said you were having a little trouble learning the rules."  
  
Trip tried frantically to think of something to say, some response that would prevent the beating he was sure he was about to get, but he came up empty.  
  
Two of the other inmates grabbed Tucker's arms while scarface punched him in the stomach, then slammed a fist into his jaw when he doubled over. He waited for Tucker to straighten up before continuing.  
  
"It's time you figured out how things really work around here," the man said as he unbuckled his belt Suddenly Trip knew what was about to happen, and he began to fight, lashing out with his fists and twisting desperately to get away, but in vain. One man got an arm around his waist and slammed his forehead against the corner of the counter, stunning him. The floor tilted up to meet him as he fell. A crimson liquid, which must have been his blood, flowed into his eye, stinging. Tucker felt woozy; the fight drained out of him. The two who had grabbed him began kicking him in the stomach, ribs, and back. Finally they took hold of his arms and hauled him to his feet, where scarface waited for him, sneering. 


	4. Reasonable doubts

Disclaimer: I don't own any of the Enterprise characters, and I'm not making any money from this story.  
  
Warning: This is another dark story. Contains implications of sexual assault.  
  
+++  
  
Chapter 4: Reasonable Doubts  
  
When the attack was over and the men had left, Trip lay where he had fallen, very still in case they came back. When he was sure they were really gone, he curled up in a tight ball, arms wrapped around his bruised ribs. With one shaky hand he reached up and touched his forehead, feeling the sticky, partially congealed blood. He felt like he was moving through molasses. Everything hurt.  
  
Suddenly, Trip heard the door open and close. They were back! He struggled to his hands and knees and crept over into the corner beyond the end of the cabinets.  
  
A voice called, "Hey, kid! Come on out." The guard! Trip could hear her club banging along the edge of the counter, and then she was in front of him, stick swinging loosely from her hand.  
  
"Get up," she ordered. "They're gone."  
  
It took a second for it to register with Tucker what this meant. She knew. She knew what they had done to him and she hadn't even tried to stop them. The realization hit him like a fist to the gut. All he could think about was how much he hated this place and everything in it. There was no justice on the entire planet. He desperately fought back the tears that threatened to fall. There was no way he was going to let her see him cry.  
  
"I said get up!" the woman ordered again, this time raising her club. Trip put his arms up over his head to protect himself just as the weapon came down, landing on his forearm. The next strike caught him on the shoulder as he curled up, hands behind his neck. Two more blows landed on his back, and then the guard hauled him up by his already ripped shirt and shoved him toward the door.  
  
"Where are we going?" Trip asked, trying to keep his voice from breaking. He had heard stories about solitary confinement, and given the way he had been treated so far, it seemed reasonable to assume that might be their destination.  
  
"The infirmary. Now shut up!" The club struck him on the back again, and he fell silent.  
  
+++  
  
Archer had just drifted off to sleep when his commpanel chirped. He reached up without opening his eyes and thumbed the button.  
  
"Archer here," he said sleepily.  
  
"I'm sorry to bother you, Captain," came Hoshi's voice, "but I just found out something interesting about the Aslandian legal code."  
  
"You were reading legal code at 2 am?" Archer asked in confusion.  
  
"Captain, public officials aren't allowed to get divorced."  
  
Archer though about that for a moment. "So. . . Rodrigo couldn't divorce his wife to marry his mistress. Do you think that would be enough for him to want to kill her?"  
  
"It might be."  
  
"I think I'm going to talk to Investigator Dimoc. Maybe I can convince him to look at the evidence again. Archer out."  
  
Archer sat back down on his bed and ran his hands through his hair. He might as well give up on sleep. Since it was daytime on the planet, he decided to go see Dimoc right away. On second thought, maybe I should take T'Pol with me, he thought ruefully. She can keep me from getting thrown in jail for punching a police officer.  
  
+++  
  
Malcolm Reed shifted his weight to prevent his legs from going to sleep. He had been sitting on a bench in the exercise yard for nearly two hours, getting a horrible sunburn while he waited for Commander Tucker. How long did it take to clean one bloody kitchen? He decided he would ask the guard how much longer it might be. He stood, brushed off the back of his pants, and headed toward the door where a guard stood with arms folded.  
  
"Pardon me, sir," he said politely, "how long does it usually take to clean the kitchen?"  
  
The guard stared down at him curiously. "Why?"  
  
"My friend was sent to clean the kitchen. I wondered how much longer he might be."  
  
"He an off-worlder like you?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
"He's in the infirmary." The guard turned away.  
  
"Excuse me, in the infirmary? What happened to him?"  
  
The man smirked. "Rogin and his boys got him."  
  
"What? What did they do to him?" Malcolm demanded.  
  
The smirk widened. "Why don't you ask him? He should be back after a while." The guard walked away, swinging his club. Malcolm walked back across the yard to where his cellmate Finellan was sitting on one of the tables. Finellan, one of the few Aslandians who was shorter than Malcolm, turned to look his way as he approached, squinting into the sun.  
  
"Who's Rogin?" Malcolm asked without preamble.  
  
Finellan's eyebrows went up. "Rogin? Why?" His eyes scanned the yard nervously.  
  
"He put my friend in the infirmary, he and his 'boys'."  
  
Finellan shook his head sadly. "He's bad news, Malcolm. Hope your friend's all right." The man looked around nervously again, then got up and walked away, leaving Malcolm with a growing knot in his stomach. Why did I leave him alone? He thought. This is all my fault.  
  
+++  
  
"Look, I just need to talk with Investigator Dimoc." Archer aimed his most charming smile at the plain, middle-aged woman behind the desk. She folded her arms across her ample bosom and narrowed her eyes at him suspiciously.  
  
"He's busy," she grunted. "You'll have to make an appointment."  
  
"It's very urgent that we speak to him. We have information about a murder," T'Pol put in.  
  
The woman frowned. "I said Investigator Dimoc is busy, you'll have to-"  
  
"I'm right here, Shelliak," came a voice behind Archer. He spun around to see Dimoc standing behind him with a jacket slung over one shoulder and a briefcase in his hand.  
  
"Oh, it's you. Archer, right?"  
  
"That's right. I was hoping to talk to you about the case."  
  
"Trial's over, Captain. The case is closed."  
  
"We have some new evidence," T'Pol said. Dimoc's gaze shifted to her as if he was noticing her for the first time.  
  
"Doesn't matter," Dimoc said, shaking his head. When he turned to go, Archer followed him.  
  
"Did you know Administer Rodrigo had a mistress?" he asked loudly. The woman at the desk stopped what she was doing and stared at them, as did several other people in the lobby of the police station.  
  
Dimoc sighed. "Let's talk in here," he said, pointing at a partially open door labeled "Interrogation." Archer and T'Pol followed him into the room and they all sat down on hard metal chairs around a small rectangular table with chipping brown paint. One wall of the room was taken up with an enormous mirror, the rest were bare and painted gunmetal gray.  
  
Dimoc opened his briefcase and took out a notebook and pen. "How did you know about the mistress?" he asked.  
  
Archer and T'Pol exchanged glances. "A neighbor told us. In fact, it was the same neighbor who testified at the trial."  
  
Dimoc stared at him. "Lusha Brevald said the Administer had a mistress?"  
  
"Well, not exactly. She said he had a 'secretary' who only came around when the wife was out. I take it you knew about it?"  
  
"Only after the fact. Rodrigo's been seen around town with a young lady, Miss Kamina Jellin. He claims the relationship is new and that she's 'helping him get over his grief' but it's pretty obvious they've been together for a while."  
  
"According to the bartender, it was not Aliana Rodrigo who met Commander Tucker and Lieutenant Reed at the bar. We believe it may have been the mistress," said T'Pol.  
  
"Wait a minute, the bartender said that? We interviewed him. Let's see. . ." Dimoc flipped back in his notebook. "Here. Bartender named Urev. He said he saw the off-worlders meet a woman in the bar and leave with her."  
  
"Urev is also an off-worlder. Perhaps he felt uncomfortable speaking with the police."  
  
"I wouldn't know, I didn't do the interview, Gordo talked to him. Look, I know an easy way to resolve this. We found a hair on your Lieutenant Reed's jacket, a long, red hair. We never analyzed it because all the other evidence pointed to your men. If I do the analysis and it comes out as a match to Mrs. Rodrigo, will you drop this?"  
  
"Why are you so eager for us to go away?"  
  
"Frankly, Captain Archer, we're swamped. With the new legislation Administer Rodrigo pushed through, we're spending all our time chasing down and arresting off-worlders for minor offenses, instead of . . ." Dimoc trailed off and looked away uncomfortably."  
  
"Instead of what?"  
  
"Never mind. I shouldn't even be discussing this with you. I'll do the analysis, all right? That's all I can promise." Dimoc tossed his notebook and pen back into the briefcase and stood, clearly signaling that their conversation was finished.  
  
+++  
  
It was dinnertime before Malcolm saw Trip again. After gathering his tray and meal, he spotted the engineer already seated at a table in the far corner. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly as he made his way to the table. He knew it was unlikely that Trip would tell him what had happened, but he felt he had to try.  
  
"May I sit here?"  
  
When Trip looked up, Malcolm felt his stomach clench at the condition of his friend's face. He tried not to stare at the deep red gash, held closed with a row of neat stitches, above Tucker's left eye. Trip looked away.  
  
"Suit yourself," he said hoarsely.  
  
Malcolm carefully set his tray in the empty space. "Commander, are you all right? I feel horrible-"  
  
Trip interrupted, "What makes you think I give a shit about how you feel?"  
  
Malcolm felt himself near tears of despair. "I-I just-I'm sorry, that's all."  
  
"I don't need your sympathy, Reed." Trip crumpled his napkin and tossed it on top of his nearly untouched dinner. He picked up his tray and walked away. Malcolm watched him go. Being your friend is hard work, Charles Tucker, he thought angrily. He considered skipping dinner and going after the engineer, but decided against it. If Trip didn't want his company, he wasn't going to force it on him. It was obvious the man just wanted to be left alone, which is what Malcolm would have wanted himself under the circumstances.  
  
+++  
  
Investigator Dimoc sat down at the microscope with a sigh. Although it was late and he was supposed to be home by now, he had decided to go ahead and get this little project out of the way before he left for the day. He had to admit he was more than a little curious about what the outcome might be, in a purely intellectual way. At the time of the arrests, he had had no doubt that the two off-worlders had committed the murder, but now he wasn't so sure. The Administer seemed a little too quick to get over his grief.  
  
Dimoc shook his head. What was he thinking? The Administer couldn't have killed his wife. He was one of their most trusted and revered leaders. Dimoc slid the long, red hair from the evidence envelope and positioned it under the microscope. He leaned down over the eyepiece and adjusted the focus.  
  
"Son of a bitch." Dimoc leaned back heavily on the stool. The hair's red color was clearly the product of a bottle, which meant that it could not have come from Mrs. Rodrigo who according to her autopsy was a natural redhead.  
  
"He must have done it while they were in the house. How else could he have gotten the murder weapon in the off-worlder's pocket?" Dimoc said to himself. "And he got away with it too. Now what am I going to tell Captain Archer?"  
  
+++  
  
Trip Tucker pulled his blanket tighter around his shoulders, trying to ward off the draft that blew cold on his neck. He shifted slightly on the hard floor. Every movement hurt, and he could not find a comfortable position on the cold concrete. He wondered briefly if he could get away with sneaking into one of the empty beds, but discarded the notion immediately. If Tazmin caught him . . . A lump appeared in his throat at that thought. Why did everything here have to be so hard? He wanted to go home so badly. Home-where it was warm and safe, where no one hit you for minor infractions, where your input was valued and people cared whether you lived or died. Oh, God, he wanted to be there so much. He bit on his lip to keep it from quivering as he tried to breathe quietly and evenly. A tear slid across the bridge of his nose, and he slipped one hand out from under the blanket to wipe it away. Why didn't the captain come and get him? Had Enterprise left without them? Maybe Jon thought he really had murdered that woman! Trip couldn't stop himself from letting out a quiet sob. Suddenly a massive shadow fell across him.  
  
"Get up, boy," a low voice growled.  
  
+++  
  
When Dimoc returned to the precinct the next morning, Archer and T'Pol were waiting for him on the hard plastic chairs in the lobby. The investigator looked a little irritated as he pointed them toward the same interrogation room.  
  
"You did the analysis?" Archer asked before they even sat down.  
  
Dimoc sighed. "Yes."  
  
"And?"  
  
Dimoc shifted in his chair nervously. In fact if Archer didn't know better he might think the man was squirming. "You were right," he admitted finally. "The hair wasn't hers. Your men didn't do it."  
  
The corner of Archer's lip tugged upward in a grin he couldn't suppress. "So what do we do next?"  
  
"Nothing."  
  
"What? What do you mean, nothing?"  
  
"Look, what do you want from me? The law is the law. I'm just a cop, I enforce the laws, I don't make them."  
  
"But you said yourself they were innocent! What is the appeals process?"  
  
Dimoc looked confused. "There is no appeals process. Once a person is convicted, that conviction can't be overturned.  
  
Archer leaned forward, ignoring T'Pol's restraining hand on his arm. "Do you mean they won't be released, no matter what?"  
  
"I'm afraid so, Captain." 


	5. Let My People Go

Disclaimer: I don't own any of the Enterprise characters, and I'm not making any money from this story.  
  
Warning: This is another dark story. Contains implications of sexual assault.  
  
+++  
  
Chapter 5: Let my people go  
  
From his seat at a table in the middle of the cafeteria, Malcolm watched Trip who was sitting two tables over. The engineer had his fork in his hand, but he hadn't taken a bite yet, just pushed his breakfast around his plate unenthusiastically. For two days they hadn't spoken. After the first day, Malcolm had stopped trying to draw Trip out, and now they were just avoiding each other. But Malcolm still watched Trip from across the room, which is how he happened to be looking when the giant picked a fight with him again. This time the guard didn't even bother to ask who had started it. She just shoved Trip toward the kitchen. Malcolm forced himself to stay in his seat until he saw Rogin's gang file past the guard, then picked up his tray and walked casually toward the front of the cafeteria. As soon as the guard was distracted, he slipped into the kitchen.  
  
Malcolm spotted Trip right away. Rogin's gang had him surrounded, backed up against the cabinets. Rogin was punching him in the stomach and face while the others held him. Even though he was completely outnumbered and didn't have a chance, Trip was still squirming and fighting to get away.  
  
"Hey!!" Malcolm shouted. "Leave him alone!" He ran across the room and jumped on Rogin's back, arms around the man's throat in a strangle hold. Rogin swung around, trying to dislodge him. One of the other men released Trip and pulled on Malcolm's leg; Malcolm kicked him in the face. The man went down but immediately got back up again, shaking his head to clear it.  
  
Trip took advantage of the distraction by slamming his shoulder into the stomach of the man who was still holding him. The man staggered backwards and fell, dragging Trip down with him. Trip rolled and jumped back up just as Rogin slammed Malcolm into the wall and dislodged him. Malcolm went down on his back. He scrambled back to his feet and attacked again, this time grabbing Rogin around the midsection and driving him back against the cabinets.  
  
Trip caught a glimpse of the murderous look in Malcolm's eyes as he struck. He didn't have time to be surprised because at that moment two of the other men jumped on him. He struggled violently, but couldn't get away. He saw out of the corner of his eye a flash of silver, then Malcolm let out a small noise, almost like a sigh, and slowly crumpled. Rogin pulled his hand away. It was covered in a bright red liquid. He backed up, wiping something on his pants.  
  
Suddenly the attack was over. The men holding Trip released him and took off en masse. Trip stood for a moment, panting, wondering why Malcolm didn't get up. Then his eyes focused on the growing pool of blood around the lieutenant's midsection.  
  
"Malcolm!" Trip dropped to his knees at his friend's side. Reed's skin was pale and clammy. His breath came in short gasps, and blood bubbled from his lips. "Oh, God. . ."  
  
"Can't-breathe," Malcolm gasped. The skin around his mouth was rapidly taking on a bluish tinge.  
  
Trip pushed Malcolm's hands out of the way to see the wound, but there was too much blood. He lifted up Malcolm's head and shoulders onto his lap and wrapped his arms around him, pressing both hands against the hole in his side.  
  
"HELP!!" he shouted. There was no response. "HELP US!!!" Reed groaned in pain.  
  
"It's ok, Malcolm. It's gonna be ok," Trip lied. It wasn't ok. Malcolm was going to die, and he was going to be left all alone in this horrible place.  
  
"HELP!!" The only response was a whining sound, then everything started to go dim. The kitchen seemed to grow fuzzier and fuzzier, until finally it disappeared entirely.  
  
+++  
  
The second Shuttlepod One touched down in the shuttle bay, Archer was out of his seat, opening the hatch and heading toward the bridge with T'Pol on his heels.  
  
"What do you plan to do, Captain?"  
  
"I'm going to do what I should have done over a week ago, get them out of there!" he said over his shoulder.  
  
"How do you intend to accomplish that?"  
  
"I don't know, we'll go down in a shuttle and break them out if we have to! Don't stand in my way, T'Pol."  
  
"May I suggest using the transporters?"  
  
Archer stopped and turned to face her. T'Pol stared back at him blandly. "Good idea," he said.  
  
"May I also suggest you inform Admiral Slocum?"  
  
"What if he tells me to keep sitting on my hands?"  
  
"I did not say to ask him, I said to inform him. Don't you humans have a saying, 'it is easier to ask for forgiveness than permission'?"  
  
+++  
  
On the bridge, Captain Archer leaned forward anxiously in his chair. They had been searching for Trip and Malcolm for nearly an hour, scanning every square foot of the prison from one end to the other. Archer was about to order Travis to move in a little closer and start the scan again when Hoshi finally spoke.  
  
"I've found them!" She called excitedly from her station. "They're together. . . Captain, I think one of them is injured."  
  
Archer jammed his thumb down on the commpanel. "Captain to Transporter room."  
  
"T'Pol here."  
  
"We found them. Lock on to the coordinates Hoshi is sending you and beam them up."  
  
"Understood, Captain."  
  
As soon as the coordinates were entered, T'Pol nodded to the security team standing in front of her. They raised their weapons and aimed them at the transporter pad, just in case they ended up beaming up the wrong people. Behind T'Pol stood Ensign Cutler, ready to assess any injuries.  
  
T'Pol manipulated the slides to activate the transporter, and a form began to take shape on the pad. Within seconds, she could make out Commander Tucker, sitting with his arms wrapped around Lieutenant Reed who was lying half in his lap. An instant later she saw the garish red blood, way too much of it, soaking Reed's shirt and covering Tucker's hands.  
  
"Lower your weapons!" she ordered. She quickly ran to the pad with Cutler close behind.  
  
"T'Pol?" Tucker asked hoarsely, brow furrowed in confusion. "What-what. . ?"  
  
"It's all right, Commander. You are aboard Enterprise."  
  
Behind her, T'Pol could hear Cutler calling for the doctor. "Belay that, Ensign," she said. "It will be faster if I carry him. Crewman Santos, please place your hand over the wound."  
  
The young crewman moved in hesitantly. T'Pol seized his hand and pressed it firmly over Tucker's. "Commander, you may let go now."  
  
Tucker gripped Reed more tightly, his knuckles turning white from the effort. T'Pol looked into his eyes. "Commander, we need to take him to sick bay to treat his injuries. Please let go."  
  
"Don't let him die." Tucker's voice broke. He released his grip. T'Pol slid one arm around Reed's shoulders and the other beneath his knees and stood. The burden was heavy, but manageable. She headed toward the turbolift, leaving a bright red trail of blood droplets along the floor.  
  
Trip watched them go in bewilderment. He wasn't sure what had just happened. One minute he had been sitting on the cold cement floor of the kitchen watching Malcolm's life drain away, and the next moment T'Pol was leaning over him. Trip wasn't entirely convinced Malcolm was still alive. He hadn't appeared to be breathing and his skin was starting to get cold. Trip looked around the room but couldn't quite process what he saw.  
  
"Commander? Commander!" Trip forced himself to focus on the voice. Ensign Cutler. He felt a hand on his shoulder and he jerked away.  
  
"Commander, are you hurt?"  
  
"Malcolm. . ."  
  
"The doctor will take care of him. Come on, I'll take you to sick bay."  
  
"No, I'm not hurt. I don't need to go to sick bay. It-it's Malcolm. . ."  
  
"Commander, let's go see how he's doing, all right?"  
  
+++  
  
Malcolm felt himself drifting. A few moments before sounds had begun to diminish and now he couldn't even hear Trip shouting anymore. The room had grown fuzzy and seemed to disappear, then a bright light had surrounded him, enveloped him. He thought he heard T'Pol's voice, but he couldn't quite make out the words.  
  
Now he felt like he was floating, lights flashing and fading. So this is what death feels like, he thought hazily. Not bad. He could imagine worse. Death smelled clean and spicy, sort of like T'Pol. Nice. Slowly everything faded to black.  
  
+++  
  
When the sick bay doors opened, T'Pol looked up from the cupboard where she had been attempting to locate medical supplies requested by the doctor.  
  
"Ensign Cutler," she said with a slight feeling of relief, "the doctor needs your assistance. He requested an autosuture and dermasealer."  
  
Cutler nodded as she ran to another cupboard and quickly found the items. She entered the surgery bay without a backward glance, leaving Trip staring after her.  
  
"Commander, are you injured?" T'Pol collected a medical scanner and stepped toward him. He shook his head and looked down at his hands.  
  
"No, it-it's Malcolm's blood. I'm fine."  
  
T'Pol held the scanner up and activated it. "Please be seated on the exam table," she directed him.  
  
"I'm fine, really, I just-I just need to get cleaned up."  
  
T'Pol lowered the scanner and really looked at him for the first time. She had been so focused on Lieutenant Reed that she hadn't taken the time to notice Commander Tucker's condition, but now she saw his red-rimmed eyes and blood-smeared face.  
  
"Very well. Over here." She pulled a stool over to the sink and he sat on it. She dampened a washcloth and began to wipe his face gently. The blood and grime disappeared, revealing extensive bruising on his face and neck.  
  
"Remove your shirt, Commander, and wash your hands. I will find you something clean to wear." T'Pol turned away to search through the cupboards again. She finally located a door labeled "scrubs" and opened it to find stacks of green cotton shirts and pants neatly folded inside. Selecting a shirt at random she turned toward him and stopped. He was faced away from her bending over the sink, giving her an unobstructed view of his bare back which was covered in partially healed contusions. One large bruise was clearly shaped like a bootprint.  
  
"Did ya find me a shirt?" he asked without turning around.  
  
"Yes," she answered quickly. She brought the shirt to him. He dried his hands on the towel she had laid out on the counter, then took the shirt and pulled it on over his head.  
  
T'Pol washed the blood from her own hands, then picked up the scanner again. "Please lie down on the exam table, Commander."  
  
"I said I was fine. Maybe I'll just go to my quarters." Tucker's eyes darted around the room as if he was searching for the exit.  
  
"Commander Tucker," T'Pol said calmly. She caught his eye and held it. "That was an order, Commander."  
  
Tucker's breathing became shallower and faster. After a few seconds he broke the eye contact and reluctantly lay down on the table. T'Pol activated the device and began scanning his chest. The scan quickly revealed he had no broken ribs, so she moved down to his abdomen. His breathing changed again, this time sounding shaky and irregular.  
  
Finding no internal injuries, she moved up to scan his face. No broken bones there either but she did find that he had decreased levels of several neurotransmitters in his system, which indicated severe exhaustion. Seeing the dark smudges under his eyes, she did not doubt that diagnosis.  
  
Tucker turned his face away from her but not before she had seen the look in his eyes, a mixture of fear and-something else. Shame? Guilt? T'Pol deactivated the scanner and set it aside. She very gently pushed back his hair and laid her fingertips lightly on his temple.  
  
"Sleep," she whispered. His eyes drifted shut and his body slowly relaxed. T'Pol stood for a moment watching him, then she fetched a blanket and covered him. The doctor could finish the scans later. Right now rest was what he needed. T'Pol lowered the lights as she left sick bay and headed toward the bridge.  
  
+++  
  
"Captain," Hoshi said with a touch of anxiety in her voice. "We're being hailed, from the surface."  
  
"Put it on the main viewer," Archer responded grimly. A woman's face appeared on the viewscreen, and it was clear before she even spoke that she was not happy. Archer recognized her as the Administer of Tourism, but he couldn't remember her name.  
  
"Captain Archer," she said firmly, "the warden of SouthEast prison informs me that your two crewmembers have disappeared from the grounds. Prison internal sensors picked up some sort of energy beam just before they went missing."  
  
"That would be our transporters. Commander Tucker and Lieutenant Reed are now on board Enterprise."  
  
"I demand that you return them immediately!"  
  
"I'm sorry, Administer, but I can't do that. We have evidence proving their innocence."  
  
"Captain, you have violated interplanetary law. Those prisoners belong to us!"  
  
"Well, I have them and I have no intention of returning them. Archer out."  
  
Archer leaned back in his chair and blew out a breath that he didn't realize he'd been holding. Crewman Baird spoke up from the tactical station. "They're launching ships, sir. Five of them, armed and headed right toward us."  
  
Shit. It didn't look like they were planning to just let them go, as he had secretly been hoping. Archer looked up as the Turbolift door hissed open and T'Pol entered. She nodded at him on her way to her station.  
  
"What are your orders, Captain?" asked Baird.  
  
"Let's get out of here. Travis, take us to maximum warp."  
  
"Aye, sir." Almost instantly Archer felt the slight tug as the ship jumped to warp, leaving the planet far behind.  
  
"Crewman, are they following us?"  
  
"Yes, Captain. They've gone to warp as well, but I don't think they can match our speed.  
  
"Maintain present course then. Let's see if we can outrun them."  
  
"Aye, sir." Everyone on the bridge waited in tense silence as their pursuers slowly fell farther and farther behind, until it was clear they would not be able to close the gap.  
  
Finally, Baird said triumphantly, "They're breaking off pursuit, Captain!"  
  
"Excellent. T'Pol, how are Trip and Malcolm?"  
  
"Lieutenant Reed is in surgery. Commander Tucker is sleeping."  
  
"You have the bridge. If anyone needs me I'll be in sick bay."  
  
+++  
  
A/N: only a couple more chapters to go. I considered having Trip carry Malcolm to sick bay, but then I wouldn't have gotten to put in that little vignette with Malcolm thinking he's dying while T'Pol is carrying him. If you think it should be the other way, feel free to rewrite it in your head cuz I'm leaving it the way it is. 


	6. Breaking point

Disclaimer: I don't own any of the Enterprise characters, and I'm not making any money from this story.  
  
Warning: This is another dark story. Contains implications of sexual assault.  
  
Warning #2: Contains angst!  
  
+++  
  
Chapter 6: Breaking Point  
  
Archer entered sick bay to find the Doctor scrubbing his hands at the sink. When the doors swished shut he turned around, drying his hands on a towel.  
  
"Ah, Captain, I thought I might see you down here," he said brightly.  
  
"How is Malcolm?"  
  
"He suffered a puncture wound to the lower lobe of his right lung, lost quite a bit of blood. He got here just in time. I doubt he would have survived much longer."  
  
"And now?" Archer asked anxiously.  
  
"He'll recover quite nicely, I should think. The bruises will heal in time."  
  
"Bruises?"  
  
"Mmm-yes. He had several of them, all fresh. It looks like they were in quite a fight."  
  
"Trip?"  
  
"Still sleeping. I just finished examining him. He has a number of contusions and abrasions in various stages of healing, but no serious injuries. Would you like to see him?"  
  
"Do you mean he was in more than one fight?"  
  
"Yes, I would say so," the doctor responded as he pulled back the curtain that surrounded Trip's bed.  
  
Archer stared down at his friend lying motionless on the bed. Even in sleep Trip's brow was puckered and his jaw was tightly clenched. A smudge of blood was still visible on his cheek, and his hair was spiky with dried sweat. Archer bit his lip. Some of the bruises had already faded to yellow-brown, indicating they were several days old. All this time, while he and T'Pol had been wasting their time dealing with bureaucracy and trying to get them out diplomatically, Trip had been getting the shit beat out of him.  
  
"Scans indicate his most serious injury is two broken bones in his right hand. He also has three cracked ribs. That happened about two days ago." Phlox folded back the blanket and lifted Trip's shirt to show the captain. Archer caught a glimpse of Trip's blood-soaked pants before the doctor covered him again.  
  
"It also appears he had medical care. You see this cut here?" The doctor pointed to a pinkish line above Trip's left eye. Archer nodded. "It's been stitched, quite expertly. I doubt he'll have a permanent scar."  
  
Ensign Cutler emerged from the surgical bay. "Doctor?" she said quietly, "Lieutenant Reed is waking up."  
  
"Ah, wonderful. Captain, I assume you'd like to see him? Come with me."  
  
In contrast to Trip, Malcolm looked freshly scrubbed. Archer guessed Cutler had been cleaning him up. His eyes were closed but they fluttered open when Archer stepped up next to the bed.  
  
"Captain?" Malcolm croaked. He blinked in confusion.  
  
Archer grabbed Reed's hand which was lying on top of the sheet. "You're all right, Malcolm, thanks to Doctor Phlox. Welcome back!"  
  
"Thank you, sir. How's Commander Tucker?"  
  
"Asleep. He'll be fine. Can you tell me what happened to him?"  
  
"He didn't tell you anything?"  
  
Archer shook his head.  
  
"He was attacked. . . two days ago. Put him in the infirmary. . . trying to prevent it happening again, when. . ." Malcolm broke off and swallowed convulsively. "Lot of help I was. Nearly ended up getting myself killed."  
  
"Malcolm, you're both alive, that's what counts. Now get some rest. We can talk more later."  
  
"Yes, sir," Malcolm said weakly. His eyes slid shut and didn't open again. Archer laid the lieutenant's hand back down on the bed and tiptoed out, followed by the doctor.  
  
+++  
  
"Can I go now, Doc? I really wanna wash the rest of this blood offa me."  
  
The doctor looked up from his equipment at his patient sitting restlessly on the exam table. "Please sit still while I complete the procedure. Almost finished." He went back to his task of repairing the bones in Commander Tucker's right hand.  
  
"I think you're finished now. Feels good enough." Trip pulled his hand away and hopped down off the table.  
  
"Commander," the doctor called as Tucker headed toward the door.  
  
"What?" came the irritated reply.  
  
"Take these, in case you want something later for the pain." Phlox held out a bottle of pills. "No more than one every four hours."  
  
Tucker walked back just far enough to snatch the bottle from Phlox's outstretched hand, then he was out the door without so much as a thank you.  
  
"Hmm." Phlox turned off the equipment and headed toward the surgical bay to check on his other patient.  
  
"And how are we feeling today, Lieutenant?" he asked with a smile.  
  
"Tired of being here," Reed replied grumpily.  
  
"I see. Let's check that suture site." Phlox folded back the sheet and inspected his handiwork. "Healing quite nicely. Your scarring should be minimal."  
  
"Is Commander Tucker still here?"  
  
"Just left."  
  
Malcolm frowned. He had hoped Trip would at least come to visit him before he was discharged. He had to admit it hurt just a little to be snubbed so completely. Of course the captain had been by, and T'Pol and even Hoshi had put in an appearance, but Trip had stayed away.  
  
"How much longer do I have to stay here?"  
  
"Oh, I should think you'll be ready to go by tomorrow."  
  
"Good."  
  
"Maybe by tonight you'll feel like sitting up and eating a little, hmm?"  
  
"I suppose so," was Reed's only reply. He turned his head away and stared at the wall morosely.  
  
+++  
  
When Malcolm Reed entered the mess hall it was nearly empty, which was what he had hoped for. He wasn't back on duty yet, so he could time his meals so they didn't overlap the crew's regular breaktimes. It had only been two days, but he was already sick to death of people asking him how he was doing and expressing sympathy. Of course, the one person he wanted to talk to most, the only one who really understood what he and Commander Tucker had gone through, was Commander Tucker himself, and so far the engineer had been avoiding him like the plague.  
  
Malcolm chose a sandwich at random from the food dispenser and turned to find a table, which was when he spotted Tucker sitting in the far corner slowly demolishing a piece of pie with his fork. It didn't look like he had taken a bite yet, just crushed the pie until it was barely recognizable. Tucker looked up. His eyes connected with Malcolm's and he quickly looked down again. Well, that tears it, Malcolm thought. I can hardly ignore him now. He walked casually over to Trip's table.  
  
"Mind if I sit here?"  
  
Trip looked around at all the empty seats. "Couldn't find anywhere else to sit?"  
  
"I'd like to sit with you."  
  
"Suit yourself," he grunted with a fierce stab at his pie. The crust broke into several pieces.  
  
"I've heard pecans can be vicious if only wounded," Malcolm joked as he sat. Trip didn't respond. "Look, Commander, I wanted to tell you how sorry I am. You don't know how badly I feel about everything that happened." Trip stabbed his pie again, harder. When he got no response, Malcolm continued with growing anxiety, "I failed at my job. I didn't protect you. . ."  
  
"God, Malcolm, why does everything have to be about you?!" Trip exploded. The few other crewmen in the mess hall turned around to stare at him.  
  
"Commander. . ." Malcolm trailed off. He didn't have a clue what to say next.  
  
"Just shut up, all right? Leave me the hell alone!" Trip was on his feet now. Malcolm jumped up too. He could feel the heat rising up his neck to his ears.  
  
"No, I bloody well won't leave you the hell alone!" he shouted back. "I'm trying to apologize to you!"  
  
Trip headed for the door and Malcolm followed. He stepped in front of Trip and faced him. "Get the fuck outta my way, Malcolm," Trip said in a low voice.  
  
"Commander, please. . ."  
  
Trip shoved Malcolm in the chest, causing him to stumble backwards. He felt a sharp pain in his side where he had been stabbed just a couple of days before. His hands went to the spot. In the background Malcolm was aware of someone calling for the captain over the intercom. Trip took a step toward Malcolm with fury in his eyes.  
  
Crewman M'Butu, one of Malcolm's security officers who had been eating his lunch when the fight began, came up behind Trip and caught him around the waist. "Take it easy, Commander," M'Butu said.  
  
Trip's cursing gave way to frantic screaming and desperate struggling to get away.  
  
Malcolm held up a hand. "Let him go, M'Butu!" he ordered.  
  
"But boss, he-"  
  
"Do it! Let him go now!"  
  
M'Butu released Trip just as the door slid open and the captain entered.  
  
Archer took a moment to size up the situation before speaking. His tactical officer was doubled over with his hand on his side, and his engineer looked ready to explode. Crewman M'Butu hovered over Tucker but he was looking at Reed.  
  
"What's going on?" he asked firmly, looking from Reed to Tucker and back again. Neither of them said a word.  
  
"Crewman?"  
  
"I don't know what started it, sir," M'Butu reported. "They were yelling at each other, then Commander Tucker pushed Lieutenant Reed."  
  
"My ready room, both of you," Archer ordered. He turned on his heel and strode out, with the two officers following.  
  
When they reached the ready room door, Archer stopped and turned to face them. Neither would meet his eye. Archer gave a small sigh. "Trip, wait here. Malcolm, let's talk." He opened the door and let Malcolm through. Before the door closed Archer saw Trip slide to the floor to wait.  
  
"What's going on, Malcolm?"  
  
"I wish I knew, sir. He-he won't talk to me."  
  
"How long has this been going on?"  
  
"Since-since before we left the prison. It's all my fault, sir. I thought he was getting into fights, so I lectured him about learning to get along with people. I didn't realize. . ."  
  
"Realize what, Malcolm?"  
  
"I think his cellmate was beating on him. And then when he got sent to the kitchen and those men attacked him, I completely failed to protect him. Then when I tried to help him, I very nearly got myself killed. I probably did more harm than good, sir." Malcolm shook his head. "I don't know what to do, Captain. I tried to apologize to him, but that only made him angrier."  
  
Archer squeezed Reed's shoulder. "All right, Malcolm. You can go to your quarters." He thumbed the controls and the door slid open. "Trip, your turn," he said quietly.  
  
Trip stood up and brushed past Malcolm on his way into the room. The two didn't make eye contact. Once inside, Trip stood in the middle of the room with arms folded.  
  
"Well?"  
  
"Well what?" Trip responded belligerently.  
  
"Malcolm says you won't talk to him. He also claims it's all his fault."  
  
Trip scoffed. "Typical Malcolm."  
  
"What's going on, Trip? Why won't you talk to him?"  
  
"I just-I don't want to." Archer watched his friend closely. Trip kept his eyes riveted to the floor.  
  
"Trip, look at me." The younger man's eyes flicked up to meet Archer's, then down again. In that split second, Archer saw the fear, the insecurity, that Trip was obviously trying to hide. There was something more here, something that hadn't been apparent when Archer had first talked to Trip after he woke up in sick bay.  
  
"Will you talk to me? Please tell me what happened," he said gently.  
  
Trip shook his head without looking up. His face twisted with emotion that he quickly squelched.  
  
"Malcolm said your cellmate hurt you."  
  
Trip shrugged. "It was nothing I couldn't handle."  
  
"He said you were attacked in the kitchen."  
  
"I don't want to talk about it," Trip's voice broke. "Damnit!" His hand came up quickly and wiped away the tear that spilled down his cheek.  
  
"Trip, what happened in the kitchen?"  
  
Tucker's ragged breathing was his only response. Archer took a step toward him. "What happened in the kitchen?" Trip closed his eyes tightly. Archer took another step. "What happened in the kitchen, Trip?" Archer reached out a hand to touch Trip's shoulder, but the engineer twisted away.  
  
"No!! Don't touch me!" Trip backed away from Archer until he reached the wall. Then he sank down to the floor with his arms over his head. "Don't touch me," he cried hoarsely.  
  
Archer crouched next to him, carefully avoiding any physical contact. "What happened in the kitchen?" he asked again.  
  
"Don't make me say it, please-" Trip sobbed.  
  
"What happened in the kitchen, Trip?"  
  
Silence, broken only by Tucker's harsh sobs. Then in a voice so quiet Archer had to strain to hear, he said, "there were four of them. I couldn't get away."  
  
"What did they do to you?"  
  
More silence, then, in a hoarse whisper Trip finally admitted, "they raped me."  
  
No longer able to restrain himself Archer moved in closer and wrapped his arms around Tucker's trembling shoulders. This time instead of pulling away Trip buried his face in Archer's neck and wept brokenly. 


	7. And Justice for All

Disclaimer: I don't own any of the Enterprise characters, and I'm not making any money from this story.  
  
Warning: This is another dark story. Contains implications of sexual assault.  
  
+++  
  
Chapter 7: And Justice for All (finally!)  
  
First Administer Giro Rodrigo settled himself comfortably on the parlor sofa and sighed with satisfaction. Everything was just about perfect. Their little plan had gone off without a hitch. Rodrigo was feeling quite proud of Kamina. She had been quite competent about the whole thing, bringing those two men home so quickly, adding the drugs to their drinks (just enough, they didn't want two unconscious off-worlders on their hands), and even slipping the scarf into the blond one's pocket. She hadn't even flinched when Rodrigo had handed her the scarf and said it was over.  
  
Kamina was a vast improvement over Aliana, of course. No more nagging about coming straight home from work, no more complaining that he didn't spend enough evenings with her. He was so relieved to be rid of that woman! She had brought it on herself, really, with all of her whining and carrying on. He shuddered slightly and tried to push those unpleasant thoughts from his mind.  
  
Kamina entered the room from the kitchen, smiling, carrying a glass of wine in each hand. She handed one glass to Rodrigo as she sank down beside him. He took a sip thoughtfully. Everything was just about perfect, except for one small detail. The two off-worlders they had gotten convicted of the crime had been stolen away by their wretched captain. Rodrigo had managed to use that fact to his advantage, however. The very next day he had been before the council, arguing successfully that their space defenses needed vast improvements. The council had allocated several million credits for that project, and Rodrigo estimated he could easily skim off at least a third for himself without anyone being the wiser.  
  
A knock at the door broke Rodrigo's musings. He frowned. Who would be calling so late in the evening? Didn't they know this was his leisure time? He practiced his lecture as he crossed to the door.  
  
Rodrigo opened the door to find Investigator Dimoc and his flunky Gordo standing outside. His frown deepened. Why couldn't the police handle routine matters during business hours? Better yet, they could contact someone in his office. He was much too busy for this.  
  
"I hope you have good news for me, Dimoc," he said crossly.  
  
"Not exactly, sir. May we come in?"  
  
"I'm busy at the moment. You can come by my office in the morning." He started to close the door, but it was blocked by Dimoc's foot.  
  
"I think we'll handle this now."  
  
Rodrigo suddenly found a handcuff attached to his wrist. Dimoc pulled him the rest of the way out of the door and attached the cuff to the other wrist.  
  
"What is going on here?!" Rodrigo demanded angrily.  
  
"Administer Giro Rodrigo, you are under arrest for the murder of Aliana Rodrigo."  
  
"Release me this instant!" Rodrigo cried as Dimoc began towing him toward the waiting police vehicle. "I'll have your badge for this!"  
  
Gordo entered the house and returned after a moment with a handcuffed, struggling Kamina.  
  
"This is all your fault!!" she screamed at Rodrigo.  
  
"Kamina, darling, don't say anything!"  
  
"He did it!! It was all his idea!!" Kamina continued as Gordo put her in the car. By this time neighbors up and down the block were standing in their doorways and front yards watching the spectacle.  
  
Dimoc grinned to himself as he closed the door to his car. Some days he found his job very rewarding.  
  
+++  
  
At 0200, Malcolm was sitting at his desk trying unsuccessfully to read his book. He had just realized that he had read the same sentence four times and still didn't know what it said, when the doorchime rang.  
  
"Come," he said without looking up. He heard the door open and when he finally lifted his head Commander Tucker was standing awkwardly in the doorway.  
  
"Commander!" he exclaimed, dropping his book on the desk and springing to his feet.  
  
"Hey, Malcolm," Trip said quietly. His eyes flicked nervously around the room, but he made no attempt to enter. Malcolm noticed that his eyes were bloodshot and rimmed with red.  
  
"Would you like to come in?"  
  
"Uh, yeah, ok." Trip finally stepped into the room and stopped inside the door. He opened his mouth and then closed it again, looking uncomfortable.  
  
"Commander? Is there something you wanted?"  
  
"Yeah, Malcolm. I think we-uh-we need to talk."  
  
+++  
  
That's the end! So what did you think? Please review!  
  
I promise I'll make my next story a little less dark and a little more fun, ok? 


	8. Pickin' Up the Pieces

Author's Note: In response to some of your reviews, I decided to write an epilogue to this story with the conversation between Malcolm and Trip. Hope you find it fulfilling.  
  
Chapter 8: Pickin' up the pieces  
  
At 0200, Malcolm was sitting at his desk trying unsuccessfully to read his book. He had just realized that he had read the same sentence four times and still didn't know what it said, when the doorchime rang.  
  
"Come," he said without looking up. He heard the door open and when he finally lifted his head Commander Tucker was standing awkwardly in the doorway.  
  
"Commander!" he exclaimed, dropping his book on the desk and springing to his feet.  
  
"Hey, Malcolm," Trip said quietly. His eyes flicked nervously around the room, but he made no attempt to enter. Malcolm noticed that his eyes were bloodshot and rimmed with red.  
  
"Would you like to come in?"  
  
"Uh, yeah, ok." Trip finally stepped into the room and stopped inside the door. He opened his mouth and then closed it again, looking uncomfortable.  
  
"Commander? Is there something you wanted?"  
  
"Yeah, Malcolm. I think we-uh-we need to talk."  
  
"I agree, Commander." Malcolm waited patiently, but Trip said nothing. "What did you want to talk about?"  
  
Trip took a deep breath and blew it out slowly. "Look, I'm sorry, I . . ."  
  
Malcolm continued to wait, trying not to look too anxious.  
  
"This is really hard."  
  
"It's all right, Commander. Would you like something to drink?"  
  
"Yeah, some water would be great." Malcolm fetched two glasses of water and gestured for Trip to sit on his bed while he perched on the edge of the desk chair. Trip drained his glass before continuing.  
  
"The captain said--the captain said I needed to tell you."  
  
"Tell me what?"  
  
"What--what happened to me. He said you needed to know."  
  
Malcolm nodded encouragingly. He was pretty sure he already knew everything, but it might do Trip some good to talk about it.  
  
"Your cellmate assaulted you, right?"  
  
"No--I mean yes, but that's not what I needed to tell you about."  
  
Now Malcolm was confused. What's the big secret, he wondered. "Go ahead," he said with growing apprehension. What could be so horrible that Trip was afraid to tell him about it?  
  
"In--in the kitchen, that tall guy, the one with the scar--"  
  
"Rogin," Malcolm interrupted.  
  
"Yeah, him. Well, they had me surrounded. I--I tried to get away, but they were too strong. One of 'em slammed my head into the corner of the cabinets and I almost passed out, so I couldn't fight 'em off." Trip trailed off, running his fingertips along the thin pinkish line above his eyebrow. Malcolm continued to wait, silently inviting Trip to continue. For a long moment Trip stared into his empty glass silently.  
  
"I can still feel--I can feel his hand pushing my head down. The metal counter was cold, it--it hurt my cheek." Trip rubbed his cheekbone where a faded yellow bruise was still visible. "Rogin, he--he . . . God, I can't do this, I'm sorry, Malcolm." Trip set the glass on the nightstand and stood up abruptly, wiping his palms on the knees of his coverall, leaving sweaty streaks on the fabric.  
  
Malcolm jumped up too and stared at him in bewilderment. "They held your head down on the counter?" Trip's only response was his harsh breathing, eyes fixed on the door. Malcolm could hear the echo of his own breathing loud in his ears as he began to suspect what Trip was really talking about.  
  
""Commander, what did they do to you?"  
  
"I can't--"  
  
Malcolm fought to keep his voice from breaking. "Commander, please. . . I'm your friend. Nothing can change that. Please tell me." Trip finally looked at Malcolm, who caught his eye and held it. "It's all right, I'll understand," he said sincerely.  
  
After a long moment Trip looked down, breaking the eye contact. He nodded and sat back down on the bed. Malcolm sat next to him, careful not to touch him.  
  
"Rogin held my head down," Trip continued in a halting voice. "All I remember are hands, grabbing my arms, grabbing my clothes. Then he--then he unbuttoned my pants." Trip glanced up briefly when he said it, as if to gauge Malcolm's reaction.  
  
Malcolm felt like he had been punched in the chest. He couldn't breathe. "Oh, God, Commander . . ." His eyes stung as he blinked back the tears that threatened to fall. "Commander, I'm so sorry, I didn't know."  
  
Trip stared down at his fingernails, which were bitten to the quick.  
  
"Why didn't you tell me? I could have done something, I could have helped you."  
  
Trip shook his head quickly. "I didn't want you to get hurt too." He gave a mirthless chuckle. "That worked out real well."  
  
"Commander . . ."  
  
"I thought I could handle it, at first, and then--I was too ashamed to tell you. I was afraid of what you would say."  
  
"What do you mean?"  
  
"I didn't want to--to be weak. I was afraid--I thought. . ." Trip swallowed hard before continuing. "I thought you would say it was my fault."  
  
With an effort, Malcolm bit back his indignance at that idea. "Commander, I would never say that," he said earnestly. "I would never even think that."  
  
"Really?" Trip asked hesitantly.  
  
"My God, you really think I would blame you!" Malcolm felt himself on the edge of hysteria. Hot tears pricked at the inside of his eyelids "Commander, I blame myself," he said in a voice that broke upwards. Awkwardly he palmed away the tear that slipped down his cheek.  
  
Through his tears, Malcolm saw Trip's head come up, a puzzled expression on his face. "Why? How is it your fault?"  
  
"I failed to protect you. You were in trouble and I did nothing to help you."  
  
"But--but you did help me, Malcolm. If you hadn't come in the kitchen when you did, they woulda--they woulda . . ." Trip trailed off. There was no need to say it. They both knew what would have happened.  
  
Malcolm palmed away another tear, then he felt Trip's reassuring hand on his shoulder. He turned his body toward him and pulled him in for a hug, feeling Trip's shoulders shaking against him. After a moment, Trip sniffled deeply and pulled away.  
  
"I thought I was all done cryin' about this," the engineer said shakily, digging at his eyes with the heels of his hands.  
  
Malcolm clapped Trip on the shoulder, stood and headed toward the bathroom, returning an instant later with a handful of tissues. He handed half to Trip and kept the rest for himself.  
  
"So, uh, we were both busy blamin' ourselves, huh?" Trip said after blowing his nose.  
  
Malcolm managed a weak smile. "I suppose so."  
  
Trip was grinning now. "You know what T'Pol would say, of course."  
  
"Typically illogical human behavior," Malcolm said promptly, perfectly imitating the Vulcan's intonation patterns.  
  
That elicited a half-chuckle. After a moment, Trip wadded his tissue up in his hand, chewing on his lip. "Friends?" he said cautiously.  
  
"Friends," Malcolm replied. Both stood, and Trip grabbed Malcolm and pulled him in for another brief hug.  
  
"Friends," he said again, into Malcolm's shoulder.  
  
After a moment, Trip pulled away, an embarrassed smile on his lips. "Well, I'll see you tomorrow," he said awkwardly.  
  
As the door closed behind his friend, Malcolm said quietly, "See you tomorrow . . . Trip." Humming to himself, he turned back to his book.  
  
++  
  
Author's Note: Do you like that ending better? Write me a review! 


End file.
